


Don't Say Yes

by kjack89



Series: The Story of Us (Fairytale AU) [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Coercion, Crack, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Non-Sexual Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sir Grantaire and Prince Enjolras finally make it back to the kingdom, and to a reception that they very much did not expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to get less fluffy as it goes on, just as a warning.
> 
> In the meantime, usual disclaimer applies as always. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

When Grantaire had imagined what it would be like riding back into the castle’s keep with a beautiful princess in tow, it could not have been more different than the reality now. For one thing, it was always sunny in his imagination, not the dreary, rainy grey of this day. For another, there were cheering crowds, as opposed to the one half-asleep sentry who waved them through without giving them a second glance (though since they were both mud-drenched, that was hardly surprising).

And of course, he had always imagined returning with a princess, not a prince.

Not that he had a problem coming back with Enjolras; after their time in the Siren’s lake, they had come to a sort of tentative friendship that had only grown and deepened as they got closer to the castle. But here, now, even with mud caking their clothes and Enjolras’s golden curls looking positively ridiculous plastered against his head, Grantaire was suddenly reminded that Enjolras was not just the determined, stubborn, intelligent, fierce, and amazing man he had gotten to know on his journey.

Enjolras was a prince.

Whether he wanted to be or not, whether he was sincere about turning his father’s kingdom into less of a monarchy and more of a — what word had Enjolras used? — a republic, being a prince was in Enjolras’s blood, so much so that when he saw the castle walls, he automatically drew himself up, his entire being seeming regal.

Whereas Grantaire still looked and smelled like he had just spent four months traipsing through the wilderness.

Still, what was important now was that they were back, back in the kingdom, Grantaire’s duty done, and Enjolras to assumedly take his place in his father’s kingdom, Grantaire and their journey together just a distant memory. Which was why Grantaire reigned Éponine to a halt and said, almost coldly, to Enjolras, “Well, it looks as if we’re here, Your Highness.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound like that — he didn’t mean to even  _say_  that — but there was an emotion curling in his stomach that he couldn’t quite name but that made him want to knee Éponine into a gallop back to the woods to spend another few months with just Enjolras.

Enjolras started at Grantaire’s words and was about to respond when he instead noticed the banners flying above the keep and paled instead. “Oh no,” he murmured, his grip around Grantaire’s waist tightening (Grantaire tried not to notice how  _right_  that felt). “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

“What?” Grantaire asked urgently, twisting around to frown at Enjolras.

Enjolras nodded weakly toward the banner flying beneath the King’s tricolor — a blue and red banner bearing three fleur de lis. “That’s my father’s banner,” he whispered. “Meaning that he’s  _here_.”

* * *

 

King Jean, Enjolras’s father, was, in fact, visiting the kingdom, and not entirely coincidentally.

Grantaire didn’t know who had passed on the news that someone had been sent to rescue Enjolras, but made a mental note to find out whoever did and positively  _flay_  him. Because in the presence of his father, Enjolras, warm, beautiful,  _strong_  Enjolras was somehow cowed, a pale imitation of the man who had lived and laughed by Grantaire’s side for the past few months.

And that made Grantaire the angriest of all.

King Jean smirked down at them both from where he sat on the dais next to this kingdom’s king as they entered the throne room. “My son, returned,” he said, and Grantaire was certain that he wasn’t the only one who heard the mocking edge in his voice. “And at his side, his champion.”

The king stirred, glancing down at Grantaire with something like warning in his expression. “Sir Grantaire,” he said carefully. “We thank you for your service, and for returning Prince Enjolras to his father.”

Given the way the king was speaking and conspicuously not looking at King Jean, Grantaire assumed that the king was not a big fan of King Jean, which was fine with Grantaire, since he already hated the man. “It was my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Grantaire said, bowing in the king’s direction, and when he straightened he met King Jean’s eye. “It is the sworn duty of a knight to protect anyone from injustice, after all.”

For a moment, there was silence as everyone tried to decide if this was an insult against King Jean (it was), and more importantly, whether he would take it that way. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Grantaire, then he let out a booming laugh. “I knew it would take a knight with a rare tenacity to rescue my son, and even more so to survive the journey home. Come, Sir Grantaire, accompany me on a walk. I would hear all about your journey while my son gets himself cleaned up.”

It was a command and a dismissal in one, and Grantaire could not help but note that King Jean had yet to refer to Enjolras by name. To his surprise, Enjolras looked over at Grantaire almost as if seeking permission or asking forgiveness, and Grantaire again felt a curl of anger tighten in his chest to see Enjolras like this, and he watched as servants clad in the tabards of their liege escort Enjolras off to assumedly bathe. Only then did Grantaire turn back to King Jean, his expression stony.

King Jean led the way back outside to the rose garden, its enchanted covering allowing the rain still falling to water the roses but not those walking on the paths, and Grantaire followed, trailing the requisite three steps behind one of Jean’s rank (he and Enjolras had never followed that rule when alone, often walking next to each other, bumping into each other with their shoulders, their fingers just brushing as they walked…

Abruptly, King Jean stopped and turned to examine Grantaire closely. “So,” he said, savoring the syllable. “You are the hero of the hour.”

“Hardly a hero, sir,” Grantaire replied, though he was curious to see where Jean was heading with this.

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Certainly a hero, if only for putting up with my son for however many months it took for you to return. I have no delusions over what he is like, and it certainly would be taxing for any individual, let alone a knight of the realm.”

Grantaire’s expression darkened. “To the contrary,” he said lightly. “I found that Enjolras was rather pleasant company, and certainly made the time pass quickly. Perhaps he was obstinate as a child, but while he retains a stubborn streak, he has grown and matured.” He paused before adding darkly, “Though I imagine you’ve not much chance to learn that, having not seen him since you locked him a tower.”

Once again, Jean let out a booming laugh, though again there was no amusement in his expression. “I admit to finding myself surprised that my son has wound up with such a vehement defender. Perhaps he really has grown since last we spoke.” He eyed Grantaire and smiled grimly. “But of course, I imagine you must know my son quite well after all the time you spent together.”

His tone and his leer suggested a variety of things that Grantaire might have, at his weakest moments, imagined doing with Enjolras, but would never in a million years have actually done, and he flushed at the insinuation. “Enjolras is a good man,” he said quietly. “I know that even from the brief time we spent together. But to truly know your son would take a lifetime.”

Jean leaned forward, his smile cold. “And oddly enough, that was exactly what I had in mind.” He turned to continue walking, asking over his shoulder, “Tell me, Sir Grantaire, what do you know of the old laws regarding the rescue of a princess?”

“The old laws?” Grantaire asked, surprised and a little suspicious by the change in subject. “Not much. They were abandoned in this kingdom years ago.”

“But not in my kingdom, which is what matters,” Jean said lightly. “You might imagine that when a knight returned after a two or three month unchaperoned journey with an often young, nubile princess, that questions might arise of whether said princess’s honor was intact. The law was thus devised to disallow any question of that by wedding the princess to her rescuer.”

Grantaire’s lip curled. “Yes, because the only value a princess has is her honor,” he spat, though the sarcasm seemed lost on Jean, who nodded.

“Exactly. And with my son’s honor very much in question — I know well of his proclivities, unnatural as they are — it seems only fair to invoke that self-same law.”

It took a moment for Grantaire to realize what Jean meant, and he blanched. “Wait, what? You want me to marry Enjolras?” he asked, his voice squeaking. “That’s…no. I cannot. I  _will_  not.”

Despite Grantaire’s refusal, Jean merely looked amused. “I can understand your hesitation. After all, in marriage, he would take on your name, and you would thus be complicit in all crimes against the crown, were my son inclined to continue in the foolish notions that I banished him for in the first place.”

“That’s not why I’m hesitating,” Grantaire snapped, though what Jean had said certainly didn’t  _help_  matters. “I would not force your son into a marriage against his consent, least of all with me.”

Jean looked momentarily surprised, as if this was not what he had expected. “Enjolras will consent to marriage,” he scoffed. “If he does not, I will send him back to the tower from which he came. And when given the choice between marriage and imprisonment, which choice would he make?”

Grantaire shook his head. “To marriage, you could perhaps force him to agree,” he said in a low voice. “But I would not force him into a marriage with me.”

“And who else would he marry, if not you?” Jean asked, mildly curious.

Grantaire did not even have to think about it. “Combeferre.”

“Wizards are forbidden from marrying.” Jean sounded amused. “As surely you know. This is your payment for rescuing him; claim your prize the way knights of generations past have. Unless…” He hesitated. “Do you not share my son’s predilections? I had thought so, and thought the plan perfect, as you and he can hardly procreate, meaning my throne will pass down to someone far more worthy, but if you do not desire him—”

Bristling, Grantaire snapped, “Whether I do or don’t is hardly the question. Even if I desired Enjolras —  _especially_  if I desired Enjolras — I would never force him into a marriage. And while you are king in your kingdom, I am neither your subject nor a knight in your court to be ordered into this.”

Jean’s eyes flashed. “Very well,” he said frostily, turning on heal. “Then we shall bring the matter to Enjolras to see what he thinks.”

Grantaire paled, and it was all he could do to keep up with Jean as he stormed back to the throne room, where Enjolras was, rather unfortunately, waiting for them, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes, though still pale and grim. He met Grantaire’s eyes as they walked in and tried to give him a small smile, though it faltered at the expression on Grantaire’s face. “Enjolras,” Jean said, his voice commanding, and Enjolras flinched, making Grantaire’s fists clench as he glared at King Jean. “I have decided that it is time you were married, now that you are free from your tower.”

Enjolras slowly straightened, though he did not look his father in the eye. “It seems awfully sudden. May I not have some time to enjoy freedom before taking on a spouse?”

“I think not,” Jean said shortly. “Who knows what trouble you could get yourself into. No, you must be married or else returned to where I know you will be safe and protected.”

“The tower?” Enjolras asked, a catch in his voice, and he didn’t even look at his father to see if he was correct. “Then it seems I must marry.” Jean smirked and was about to speak, but Enjolras continued, his voice gaining in volume and strength. “And if I must marry, then my choice has been made for me, in all regards. I lay claim to the old laws, and acknowledge the right that only one has to my hand: Sir Grantaire, my rescuer.”

Grantaire’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Wait, what?” he said, his voice cracking, and Enjolras turned to him, something almost pleading in his expression. “You…you can’t be serious. Enjolras…”

Enjolras’s voice was quiet but steely as he said, “Please, Grantaire. For my sake. It is your right.”

There was something in his tone that if Grantaire had his wits about him, he might have noticed — indeed, many of their discussions during their journey had focused on the rights possessed by individuals and Grantaire might have called certain tenets to mind — but unfortunately, Grantaire’s brain was currently short-circuiting. “I…” he started, his voice about an octave higher than normal. “I suppose that I have no other choice.”

“Then it’s done,” King Jean said, snapping his fingers, though his expression was guarded as he looked down at Enjolras. “You two shall be married in two days’ time.”

Grantaire had been trying to sneak a sidelong look at Enjolras and gave an almost comical start when he heard King Jean’s words. “Wait, what?”

* * *

 

Grantaire felt as if his head was spinning from trying to keep up with all the preparations. His rather impressive beard — six months of not shaving was a long time, and his stubble after only a day of not shaving was quite a sight (poor Enjolras had grown nothing more than a few sparse hairs on his chin in their months together, but Grantaire had the tact not to tease him about it.  _Too_ much) — was shorn before he could even properly commemorate it, and he was fitted in the morning and found himself trying on a new, crisp white doublet that very afternoon.

“I realize we’re not meant to have a long engagement,” he told Combeferre, who had stopped in to see him as the tailor went over final details to his wedding garments, “but is one day of preparations really enough?”

Combeferre shrugged. “King Jean sees no need to delay, and you can understand why. The hints of impropriety alone—”

“Impropriety?” Grantaire interrupted, a little bitterly. “And what of the impropriety of locking your only son in a tower for over a decade?”

Combeferre shrugged again, though his face darkened briefly at the mention. “He’s a king,” he said, as if that answered everything, which, well, it kind of did, and while Grantaire hardly shared Enjolras’s republican convictions, he had never hated the concept of monarchy so much. “Besides…” And here Combeferre hesitated. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Grantaire brushed the tailor away and turned to look seriously at Combeferre. “I know that,” he said quietly. “But I want to. Enjolras deserves…well, he deserves the world, and while I can’t give that to him, I can do what’s in my power to make his life better than the hell his own father has dragged him through.”

For a long moment, Combeferre just looked at him. Then he smiled, a genuine smile. “You know, in the beginning I wondered if sending you on the quest to rescue Enjolras was a good idea. Now I think it may have been one of my best.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that, you realize,” Grantaire said waspishly, though he returned Combeferre’s smile. “But I also haven’t thanked you for it, either.”

Combeferre’s smile slipped slightly. “No need to thank me,” he said, his tone suddenly brusque. “Save that for after the wedding.” With that, he turned and left, Grantaire staring after him until the tailor accidentally poked him with a needle and looked down and swore.

* * *

 

For being rather hastily thrown together in a little over twenty-four hours, the keep was magnificently transformed for the wedding, though Grantaire felt a twinge of regret that Sir Prouvaire was not yet back from his own quest rescuing the Baron de Courfeyrac, if only because Jehan could do incredible things with floral decorations that would make it look…well, less like a wedding. And maybe he could have thrown in some poison ivy on the flowers around King Jean’s throne.

Grantaire stood in the entrance hall, smoothing his sweaty hands over his perfectly-fitted doublet, mentally trying to figure out how to stop this entire charade. “You look handsome,” someone said, and Grantaire looked up in surprise to see Enjolras in a similar outfit — his doublet was cut slightly differently to emphasize his thinner frame, but the material was the same, and Grantaire’s mouth went dry at the sight.

“Not nearly as handsome as you,” he blurted, before he could stop himself, and blushed as he looked away.

Enjolras half-smiled. “Well, here we are,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “I am about to married, something I honestly never expected for myself, and you — well, you’re about to go from accidental knight to accidental prince, so I’m sure you’re excited about that.”

Grantaire snorted. “Hardly. As good as I will undoubtedly look in a crown, I don’t think it suits me.”

Now Enjolras’s smile seemed sad. “Funny,” he said quietly, turning away. “It’s never suited me either.”

The breath caught in Grantaire’s throat and before he could stop himself, Grantaire reached out to grab Enjolras’s hand. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Combeferre had said those words to Grantaire, and Grantaire couldn’t say he was surprised when Enjolras echoed his own words back to him. “I know that. But I want to.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hand as the musical fanfare sounded. “Now come. We don’t want to be late for our own wedding.”

* * *

 

It had all passed in a blur — saying their vows in front of the hastily assembled guests, exchanging the oath-kiss, kneeling before King Jean as he placed a crown on Grantaire’s head, proclaiming him a prince, and then the feast and dancing that neither Enjolras nor Grantaire felt like participating in — but all too soon it had drawn to an end, and the two were wearing simple robes and staring at each as they stood at the foot of their marriage bed. “I’m won’t do anything,” Grantaire blurted. “I mean, I know the tradition, but I won’t…I promise.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, flashing him a nervous smile. “Since I think cutting off one’s husband’s testicles for trying anything untoward is not normally a wedding night activity.” He licked his lips and glanced at the bed. “But I suppose we could, ah, disrobe, at least. It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

“True,” said Grantaire, a little dryly, “but last time you were naked you kissed me, and I don’t want to be disappointed this time around.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras slipped out of his robe and crossed to Grantaire, kissing him on the lips. Though a chaste kiss, as chaste as the one they had shared during their marriage ceremony, there was still passion in it, enough to have Grantaire leaning into it, his eyes half-closed.

And then it was over, and before Grantaire could recover fully, Enjolras was under the covers of the bed. “Um,” Grantaire said. “Right.”

He quickly disrobed and followed Enjolras into the bed where they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. “So I guess we should, uh, get some rest. We’ve probably got a big day tomorrow, kissing peasants and thanking babies — or is that the other way around?”

Enjolras cracked a smile. “Yes, a busy day indeed,” he murmured, blowing out the candle on his bedside table, plunging the room into darkness.

For a long moment, they both just lay there, intimately aware of how close the other was, yet feeling so far away. There were a million things that Grantaire wanted to say to Enjolras, a million of things that, lying together under the stars on their journey back, he would have had no problem whispering in the dark, but here, now, closer than ever and yet never further apart, Grantaire couldn’t seem to find the words. He settled for whispering, “I really don’t think I’ll mind being married to you. It was better than what I was probably going to do with my life, anyway. I just wish you had been able to say ‘no’.”

Enjolras rolled over, surprised. “I was always able to say ‘no’,” he told Grantaire quietly. “You were — you  _are_  — the one forced into this, coerced. You’re a good man for agreeing to this, with all that it entails.”

Grantaire blushed, and was instantly glad for the darkness that covered his blush. “It really isn’t so terrible,” he murmured, chuckling slightly.

Enjolras didn’t laugh and was quiet for a long moment before saying, so softly that Grantaire almost couldn’t hear him, “It isn’t so terrible  _yet_ , anyways.”

Grantaire would have questioned him further, but then Enjolras tentatively curled against him, and Grantaire instead focused on breathing steadily, which worked all too well, since with the warmth of Enjolras next to him and in his arms in a way he had only ever dreamed of, Grantaire quickly fell asleep.

And when he woke in the morning, the entire world had gone to hell, servants scurrying about and armed soldiers at the foot of his bed. “Wha—?” Grantaire managed as he blinked awake. “Whazzgoingon?”

The soldiers snapped to attention. “Prince Grantaire,” one said cautiously. “It’s Prince Enjolras — he’s missing.”

“Missing?” Grantaire repeated. “What do you mean, missing?”

“He left at some point during the night, sir, and took several soldiers and the wizard Combeferre with him. No one knows where they’ve gone. The only thing he left behind was — this.” The soldier handed him a piece of parchment and Grantaire looked at it, a lump growing in his throat because he already  _knew_  what it said.

In handwriting that Grantaire had never seen but somehow immediately recognized as Enjolras’s, the note read:

“ _Dear Grantaire,_

_I am so terribly sorry. For what I’ve put you through before, and what I’ll put you through yet. I hope only that you can forgive me when all is done._

_Vive la Révolution!  
Enjolras_”.

And Grantaire, in his marriage bed with his crown sitting on the bed table and the note from his renegade husband clenched in his fist, laughed so hard that he cried. Or cried so hard that he laughed. It was hard to tell.

King Jean swept into the room, looking dispassionately at where Grantaire was still doubled over in hysterics. “Good, you’re awake. We have much to discuss.”

And Grantaire just laughed — and cried — even harder.


End file.
